


A Story, Your Grace

by Akitachan



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A Song of Ice and Fire References, F/M, Game of Thrones - Freeform, Gen, Post season 8 Game of Thrones, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-17 16:29:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18968977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akitachan/pseuds/Akitachan
Summary: It's hard to kill a story. Sometimes, it's harder to make them grow.





	A Story, Your Grace

'Allowing Tyrion to make Ser Bronn of the Blackwater the Master of Coin had been, perhaps, lacking in foresight…'

Bran broke from his reverie, the slightest and smallest of ironic smiles on his somber face. The Grand Council had been in their weekly meeting for hours now. Bronn would not back down from his stance on the brothels. Brienne would not back down from her stance that having the brothels rebuilt first was the most foolish idea ever had in the Seven Kingdoms. 

A small, hesitant knock on the door--

“Your Grace?”

“Ah, Grandmaester Samwell. What notes from the meeting have you brought me today?” Bronn asked, the small smile fading from his features.

“...Many notes, your Grace.”

“Ah. I see. Please sit, and discuss them with me.” Bran motioned to the stately chair across from him.

Sam took his customary seat, and shifted uncomfortably.

“There was another matter I wished to discuss with you, Your Grace.” Sam shifted again.

“Oh? Which matters?” Bran inquired.

“The matter of...stories, Your Grace. You see, Gilly was telling Little Sam bedtime stories last night. He was fussing and wouldn’t go to sleep right away. And I realized,,,I knew none of them--they were all wildling stories. I’d never heard of them. I found myself listening as intently and I--” Sam broke off, uncertain. “I wanted to hear more.”

Bran confessed, “I have never heard wildling tales, either. When I was a child in Winterfell, we had a nurse called Old Nan. I am not certain what her real name was or if she could even remember it at her age. But she never forgot her stories. She would tell us tales to lull all of us to sleep. Somehow, in all her stories, she always had something for each of us. Long, poetic stories with tales of dashing, handsome knights saving beautiful maidens for Sansa, always a happily ever after. Legends of she-warriors and fierce dragon queens of old Targaryen lore for Arya. Stories of fierce fighters battling wildlings and foreign threats from Essos, Dorne, even old tales of long-braided Dothraki khals for me and Rickon. Robb and Jon, even as they grew older, would linger in the doorway, listening as Rickon and Arya and Sansa drifted off to sleep. But not me. I always listened to Old Nan’s stories, all the way to the end.” Bran paused, lost in memories that seemed as far away as Valyria. Sam observed the young king for a quiet moment, recognizing that he was lost in his own memories for once, not the endless memories of the world.

“I’d like to hear your stories, your Grace, if it please you.” Sam asked nervously. “And I’d like to tell you mine. And Gilly’s stories, too.”

Bran, not often surprised by much these days, was taken a bit aback. “I will tell you as many as I can, if you would like. May I ask why the sudden interest in recording my stories?”

“Well,” Sam looked at the ground, tugging on his maester’s chain. “It’s not just your stories, your Grace. I want to record everyone’s. Gilly’s, mine, yours--everyone has different stories, and I think if we can find the common threads in them, it may give the realm a bit more hope for the new age.”

Bran thought about it. “Everyone’s? Not just the noble people's stories of Westeros?”

Sam shook his head. “No, even the small folk. Although many can’t read or write, I believe this would be a good way to teach them. They may be more interested if we include their own stories, legends from their own regions, like Jenny of Oldstones, Maggy the Frog, the red-eyed Dornishman of the First Dawn.”

The young king paused, “How, exactly, would this unify them Sam? People are protective of their stories, their histories. They won’t want them rewritten.”

Vigorously nodding, Sam continued, “Of course not, your Grace. But I think that goal--to ensure their stories and legends live on, for the next generation--will bring them together, to ensure the best possible version of the story comes forward. And...in times as uncertain as these, at the dawn of a new age of peace and rule, the people of the realm need a goal. Something, perhaps, to look forward to. Even if it is just recording stories.”

“Indeed..these are uncertain times. I have seen it, in my travels.”

Sam shuddered slightly. When the king spoke of his ‘travels’ or where he went, the young grandmaester always got a slight chill up his back, like someone other than Bran was watching from a long way away. Bran’s steadfast voice broke through Sam’s harried thoughts, “I approve. Send the ravens tomorrow.”

“Yes, your Grace.” Sam was relieved. He truly believed this would be a good thing the realm could unite over--after all, it is hard to kill a good story.

“Sam?”

“Yes, your Grace?”

“Where will you start?”

“Well,” Sam sighed, shrugging his shoulders. “Why not here? What was your first story, your Grace?”

Bran hesitated, then spoke. “Old Nan told me of my namesake, an uncle who had died at the hands of the Mad King before I was born. And then she told me where he received his name from, and all the Starks who were named Brandon in our history. We were named for Bran the Builder, he who founded House Stark and reigned as the first King in the North and the Lord of Winterfell…”

And so Bran began his story. Although it wasn’t just his story, it was the story of all the Starks, and thus the story of the North, the story of Westeros, the story of the world. Although Bran knew it to be true, others who heard it may just listen and dismiss it as legend, a creation myth, a tale of duty and family and diligence. 

What was his story, was also the story of everyone else. The story of Bran the Builder, along with the rest of Sam’s stories, GIlly’s stories, and maybe even a few titillating tales from Ser Bronn would make their way across the realm. 

Like the seeds of a weirwood tree, the stories would grow and grow and spread their roots, connecting everyone in the realm. New stories would bloom anew in this new chapter of history.

Winter was waning. Spring would come, soon enough.


End file.
